ToC On the night of Friday, the 26th of November, 1703, and at the hour of eleven, the door of a miserable habitation, situated in an obscure quarter of the Borough of Southwark, known as the Old Mint, was opened; and a man, with a lantern in his hand, appeared at the threshold. “I daresay the gallery will be full, but there is always the chance, and I know you two are keen on Melba. To the poor carpenter it seemed an endless distance. Courtlaw rose to his feet. If only there had not been this single torturing thought—a mere pin-prick, but still curiously persistent. Just so had his subordinates shown their apprehension. ‘If you shoot me,’ Gerald said quickly, throwing out a hand, ‘I shan’t be able to rescue you.
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